


What Song does the Heart Sing?

by DeathsLights



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Coping Mechanisms, Derek is a sweetheart, F/M, M/M, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 03:49:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7742206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathsLights/pseuds/DeathsLights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes his mom would sing. He doesn’t remember the words but he remembers the soft way she’d sing melodious and quiet like a small bird. Sometimes she’d sing in Polish there was something sad in the octaves of her voice, something in the words he didn’t have the meaning of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Song does the Heart Sing?

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbetaed and eventually I will hopefully be able to get this edited >_

There are nights when the air is thick and hard to breathe. The crickets and cicadas are the night orchestra and he’s got a reluctant front seat. All he wants is a cold breeze to come through the window. He’s down to the thinnest pair of shorts he owns. His comforter tossed to the floor and he’s sweating, praying for a reprieve from the heat or the fan to not useless in the corner, Derek’s head resting in the centre of his chest. 

The first time Derek had done this he’d slapped Derek’s back trying to get him off hot and struggling to breathe while sweat welled in the concave of his stomach. Derek had snarled and pushed himself up, eyes sleep squinted and hair flattened on one side of his head. There’d been a bead of sweat pooling in Derek’s philtrum. He’d wanted to lick it off. But the heat was humid and weighted. The weird wrong heat where your bed had no spot that seemed comfortable and you wondered if the rain would come. 

The fan hummed the blades spinning into a white disk.

“What?”

“It’s hot and disgusting you and your stupid werewolf body are making it worse.”

The edge of his snowboarder poster flapped.

“Suck it up,” Derek had said as he’d dropped down and because Derek would always be an asshole even if they were dating he hadn’t even tried to soften the blow.

A beam from a car’s headlight passed through the window lengthening the shadows on the wall.

“Oh, come on! It’s like Satan’s backyard here. Derek don’t be an asshole get off.” He’d tried to push Derek off, fingers slipping on Derek’s shoulders. “Get off, get off.” He’d gripped Derek’s hair.

There’d been the distance sound of thunder.

“If you pull my hair Stilinski your jeep is going to get a new decal curtsey of my claws.”

The rain had come near dawn the air cool and welcomed. The rain tap danced on the roof and the lightning and thunder followed. He’d traced the spirals of Derek’s tattoo and the bumps of his spine while Derek breathed against his neck.

His father’s hugs were when the dawn and dusk touched the sky. He’d rest his head on his dad’s shoulder, ear pressed against his dad’s throat. When his shifts started the dry dirt tan of his father’s uniform smelled of their laundry detergent. The baritone hum of his father’s voice as he carried him around the kitchen. When the time came for his dad’s shift to end he’d press his face against the front windows and wait for the rumble of the cruiser and then he’d run out barefoot and giggling. His dad would pick him up laughing, kissing his cheeks, smelling of burnt coffee, and the stale sweet of donuts.

The second time Scott and Kira had been sparring in the Preserve. A spot Derek had taken them to where there’d been a clearing surrounded by fir and evergreen trees. The air smelled of pine and cut grass. The sun touched the horizon orange and pink light on the skyline. He’d been eating Twizzlers the taste of artificial strawberry lingering in his mouth as he watched the height of Kira’s jumps and the blurs of his friends running.

He had walked out of the clearing once the sparring had become a game of tag and gone looking for Derek. A flock of song sparrows sang to each other in the pine trees. He’d walked for half an hour, nettles and thistles pricking his skin and sticking to the bottom of his shorts. The snapping of twigs silencing the birds and sometimes he’d slip on the moss covered rocks. 

Derek had grabbed the back of his red plaid shirt and reeled him to the ground his bag of Twizzlers scattering on the grass. 

Derek had leaned over him the mix of his green-grey eyes dark and a crow had flown overhead, asphalt black wings wide over their heads. There had been a streak of dirt under Derek’s right eye and a tear on the collar on the soil stained white tee. Derek had placed a clawed hand on his chest and had pressed his forehead against his shoulder and stayed still.

He had cradled the back of Derek’s skull unsure.

 

His mom’s hugs had been mint scented and her long dark hair soft against his cheek. He’d always been surprised by the way her small pale arms had been able to lift him. She’d balance him on her hip as she walked around sometimes they’d dance and spin around the oak kitchen chairs both laughing. His mouth red and sticky sweet from afternoon watermelon or strawberries, he’d press big kisses on her cheeks just to see her laugh harder.

He gets it when spending the night at Derek’s loft, awake and struggling to sleep. The red digital numbers cast a glow on the night table next to him. He’s on his side watching the streetlights outside of the window, Derek’s hand under his shirt pressed flat in the middle of his chest. His heavy head weighted on the pillow as his strained eyes fixated on the dark streets below. Derek’s hand is a source of heat on his cold skin the bite mark on the back of his neck stinging taking away the numbness. How Derek knows which days to leave him with mark to draw him back? He hadn’t gotten it at first too busy breathless and aroused, hadn’t felt the bite of Derek’s nails or the sharpness of his teeth. All there had been was the heat of Derek’s mouth, the grip of his hands, and the tangle of their bodies. It’s because he can put things together that he’s able to correlate the bruises on the days he can’t sleep. Sometimes Derek will lick a strip from the centre of his bottom lip to the top before kissing him. Either Derek will cut the edge of his lip or Derek will nick the back of the neck with his nail and he won’t notice until he can’t sleep and he’ll feel the bruise. Derek never leaves anything that will scar.

 

Derek reminds him of his mom.  


His mom would sometimes curl up with his dad, head resting on his father’s chest ear above the thumping of his heart. The house would be quiet the TV on the lowest volume casting shadows on the white walls. The curtains to the windows left open so the streetlights blinking on and the lights from the houses across the road could be seen. 

He’d sit on the on the carpet with a collection of fairytales or his red truck and look up sometimes. He’d see his mother’s dark brown hair covering her face and the tan of his father’s uniform, his dad’s police badge on the glass table stained with sticky coffee and juice rings. He hadn’t known then that those days had been the hardest for his dad. 

On days like that, his dad questioned his duty and whether he’d be able to get up in his uniform again. He’d soothed the sickness in his heart by stroking his wife’s hair, his eyes clenched shut and his face tilted up to the ceiling. Sometimes his mom would sing. He doesn’t remember the words but he remembers the soft way she’d sing melodious and quiet like a small bird. Sometimes she’d sing in Polish there was something sad in the octaves of her voice, something in the words he didn’t have the meaning of.

When he was too tired to play or read he’d lie down, the soft fibers of the carpet cushioning his cheek and his thumb in his mouth as he watched his mom and dad. Later on in the night, his dad would pick him to put him to bed. He’d smell the hint gunpowder and a mix of his dad’s cologne and mother’s perfume. His dad would hold him for while his lips pressed against his head.

 

He never says anything lets Derek rest his head or his hand on his chest when he wants. There are times when Derek looks at him waiting for a question or an argument that never comes, mouth flat lined and shoulders tense. Their wounds are open and still hurt some days. They let their wounds weep. They don’t try to heal each other. On those days Derek will show up with his red eyes and blood stained hands. He’ll lead Derek to the bathroom, wipe his hands and his face kiss his eyelids and then take him to bed. For him Derek will stay away he’ll smell the change and peer at him for a moment before leaning their heads together and leaving. On those days he spends with his dad wrapped in blankets watching old grainy videos. Even if they love each other they will not share their wounds, not yet. 

Years from now Derek will join the Stilinski men on their couch wrapped in a blanket with Stiles' head on his shoulder. Years from now Derek will show him the soot-stained album and a burnt teddy bear.

 

When his mom had gotten sick she would lie down on the couch and hug him. A blue satin throw over them and the table heaped with chocolate chip cookies and two glasses of milk wet with condensation. The curtains would be drawn and the TV off. She’d thread her fingers through his hair and sing, she’d sing for hours even when her voice broke and her eyes turned red. He remembers the movement of her chest and the cold metal of her necklace that he would tug on. A silver chain with a hummingbird he had picked out for her. That had stopped when she hadn’t remembered him anymore.

She hadn’t stopped singing. In the sterile hospital with its blinding white walls, she’d sing to the blanket she’d wrapped up like a child. Why was it only him? He’d sit outside next to her door under the observation window and listen. He had gone in one time. The screams and accusations had brought bile up into his throat. His dad had hugged him close and taken him away, the nurses had come to restrain his mom. His dad had picked him up and carried him away. What did he do wrong? He remembers the tight grip and the strained why his dad had said it’s okay, Stiles. It’s okay.

He had taken to hiding after that. 

 

He had met Scott there one day reading his book of fairytales. Scott had smiled mouth chocolate stained and missing teeth. Scott had offered him half of his Reece’s cup and asked him to read to him. Scott had made things better, enough that he didn’t spend all his time outside his mom’s room, made it so his dad didn’t spend the fifteen minutes in the driveway pinching his eyes when they got home. Scott didn’t take the hurt away because there was no magic soothing balm for the pain but he made the days pass easier, a little happier. 

And then his mom had died.

The table in the living room became littered with dust, whiskey bottles, and tumblers. The air sharp with alcohol and his dad’s body slipping off the couch. One day he had climbed up on the couch and tried to sing in his small voice, words that didn’t make sense. He’d stained the tan uniform where his dad would put his name tag. His dad had stopped drinking after that, poured all his bottles down the drain. 

He can’t sing for Derek his voice isn’t right for that so he talks. Talks about the various myths he likes, memories of him and Scott, what his assignments for class are, and whether Derek has ever eaten the Eastern bunny or bambi. Derek will push himself up and narrow his eyes and he’ll laugh and ask what other woodland creatures he’s sunk his fangs into.

The lights are off and the windows curtains are open the snowfall visible, the wonders of climate change. He can see Mrs. Barton’s twins making snowmen outside with their white cat Emma watching from the porch. The living room table has melting cartons of vanilla and chocolate ice cream and a half a cake with burnt edges. The cake had had a miniature black wolf figure he’d found at the dollar store. Derek had seen the wolf and tossed it across the room. Tomorrow he’ll wonder where the wolf is gone when he can’t find it. Their legs are tangled over the armrest a soft wool blanket spread over them. He runs his fingers over the curves of Derek's ear as he watches the snowfall. He hears the rumble of his dad’s patrol car. 

The door opens followed by stomping boots and the crinkle of plastic bags.

His dad stops at the entrance, his hands weighted by the grocery bags. He stares back his fingers stopping at the helix of Derek’s ear. The snow is a curtain of white. The kids across the street aren’t visible anymore. Derek mumbles and rubs his nose against the worn cotton of his shirt. His dad makes his way over to them the rustling of the bags deafening. He bites his lip and stares at his dad, unease coiling in the middle of stomach. He had never thought of Malia or Lydia as the ones he’d do this with even if he had loved them. Maybe he’d never let anyone do this. Maybe his dad had believed the same. 

His dad smiles broken and fond leans down and kisses his forehead.

“I’m glad it’s Derek,” his dad whispers.

His dad pulls the blanket over Derek before going into the kitchen to cook Derek’s birthday dinner.

“Okay?”

He looks down at Derek’s face, pink and softened by sleep and nods throat too tight. The pans clink in the kitchen, the water from the tap flowing.

Derek’s gaze lingers for a second before he pushes himself up and kissing him.

The wind swirls the snow obscures the view, big fat flakes collecting on the ground, and the roofs of Beacon Hills.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I have an idea of a sci-fi longer fic for these two and hopefully, something will come out of it stay tuned!


End file.
